


It's Okay

by Glen_Coco



Series: Song Series [3]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Blood, Gen, Gun Violence, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Suicide Attempt, This Is The Happy Ending, not beta'd either so rip me, you dont need to read part two because that is an alt ending, you should probably read part one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:54:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21960520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glen_Coco/pseuds/Glen_Coco
Summary: The door to Roman’s room was shut entirely, and there was no light slanting out from the gap between the bottom and the floor. Was he asleep?Virgil inhaled, raised his hand to knock, rested it against the door. He could hear the scribbling of a pen against paper, and then a pause, like a breath. There was the small rattling of a drawer opening.Virgil let his breath go, and opened the door.
Series: Song Series [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1430548
Comments: 6
Kudos: 36





	It's Okay

Virgil’s leg was bouncing beneath the table. “Are you sure you don’t want anything else, Virge?” Patton asked.

Virgil sipped his vodka tonic. “I’m sure.”

Patton frowned. “You sure you’re okay? You haven’t finished your drink in the thirty minutes we’ve been here.”

Virgil took a long slurp. Patton sighed and finished his drink. “I’m gonna go out and dance!” He gave a half-hearted wiggle. “Join me you two!”

Virgil and Logan exchanged a similar look of dread. “I would prefer not to,” Logan said.

“Same, Pat.”

Patton sighed. “Okay, well. I guess I’ll be going out dancing… alone.” And he disappeared onto the dance floor.

Logan sipped his white wine (the fuck? Who goes to a bar to order white wine?). He was staring across at the array of liquors and spirits vacantly. He sipped his white wine again.

Virgil swirled his vodka tonic. What was Roman doing right now? Probably cleaning up - no, he would be done with that. Sleeping? Eating? 

He should go back and check on him.

No, wait, that’s stupid. Roman wouldn’t want them checking in on him, he’s still pissed.

Probably.

Most likely.

Virgil sipped his drink again.

Patton was doing some weird thing with his arms. Drunk people really don’t dance that well. Either that or Patton just can’t dance.

Roman could dance. He could dance very well, and sing very well, and do nearly everything really well - except just tell his friends when he was hurting, apparently.

He really should go back and see him. Who knows what he was doing? Maybe he was taking Logan’s Crofters. Oh g-d, Logan’s gonna kill him. What would they do with the body?

No, no, Logan’s not going to kill Roman. Roman would not take his Crofters. 

...Oh g-d, Roman definitely took his Crofters. He’s a dead man.

No! That thinking was not helping. It was a… what did Logan tell him? Shit, he forgot, but it was irrational. He knew that. 

Roman was sleeping. That’s it. Had he been sleeping lately?

He drank his tonic.

Virgil should check on him. But what about Roman’s space? He wouldn’t want Virgil intruding.

Oh, fuck him. People do crazy shit when they’re alone. Virgil knew that. He couldn’t just leave him there. Could he?

But Roman didn’t do crazy shit. Well, he did, but it was a special brand of Roman crazy, like trying out for America’s Next Top Model or something. Not destructive crazy. Not eating Logan’s Crofters jam crazy.

He’ll be fine. They’ll check on him when they go home.

Virgil finished his drink.

Fuck it.

“Hey Logan, tell Pat that I went back home, okay?”

Logan looked at him, frowning. “Okay.” Then he went back to staring at the wall.

Virgil swung his legs off the chair and went to order a car, breathing in the crisp night air.

He was not crazy. He just had to check on Roman.

The lights were off inside. The living room was still a mess from the last planning session, papers scattered on the floor. A glass of water was left on the table, half-full and perspiration on its rim. There was no sound but the buzzing of the radiator and the clicking of the clock. Virgil fixated on its sharp tick-tock and the drone riding underneath it.

He stood there, as still like a deer in an unfamiliar forest with tall trees whose leaves blotted the sky, cloying the air with decay.

The house, of course, was familiar, was known, nearly invariable, but the air was the same. Thick. Suffocating.

There was inertia at that moment. Virgil was suspended by a cord tethered to G-d, and the minute he moved it would snap, sending the forest out and the world rushing back in, and the smell of death would sink into him. 

He took a deep breath, and he snapped the cord.

The door to Roman’s room was shut entirely, and there was no light slanting out from the gap between the bottom and the floor. Was he asleep?

Virgil inhaled, raised his hand to knock, rested it against the door. He could hear the scribbling of a pen against paper, and then a pause, like a breath. There was the small rattling of a drawer opening.

Virgil let his breath go, and opened the door.

The scene in front of him was too quick to capture in his mind. Virgil found himself rushing at Roman, knocking him from the chair and onto the floor, a bang sounding. Their breath was knocked out of both of them, gasping as they wrestled. They reached for the small metal object that had skidded away in the scuffle, scrambling on hands and legs and yanking at each other’s shirts, trying to pull the other away. Roman got a grip on the handle and yanked it towards himself and Virgil grabbed Roman’s hand and tried to tug it away. But Roman was stronger, and all Virgil could do was fall on top of him.

Roman’s hand was moving, adjusting to fit itself against the handle better, and Virgil grabbed the barrel and tried to pull it up and away. He straddled Roman’s hips. 

Something happened in the middle, something Virgil wouldn’t be able to remember precisely. Roman’s grip must have won out, or Virgil must have tilted the gun the wrong way, or else another mishap of limbs must have happened, but the result was a loud, resounding **bang.**

“AH!” Virgil shrieked and let go of the barrel, his hands burning. The gun landed on Roman’s chest, just above the spot of red blooming on his shirt. He spluttered, Roman’s arms falling to the sides as his head hit the floor.

Virgil’s breath wheezed. He pressed his hands to Roman’s chest, shoving harshly against the wound. His hands were warmed by the blood.

“H-help! Someone! P-please!” Virgil screamed. But the house was empty, he remembered. Virgil looked around the room, eyes landing on his phone that had fallen by the chair. He pushed himself off Roman, about to crawl to it when Roman’s hand caught his wrist.

Virgil stopped, turning to look at him. Roman’s hand was bleeding, his eyes wide and frightened. His grip was weak but still somehow tight, scared. His parted lips were mumbling something, whimpering. He didn’t want Virgil to go.

Virgil shook his head and yanked his hand free, diving for the phone and dialing 911.

“Hello? Yeah, my friend he - he got shot, he’s bl-bleeding - Roman, his name is Roman! No, no I’m calling from my cell - it’s 739 Crysthanamum Drive - Virgil, my name is Virgil… I can’t breathe my best friend shot himself! In the stomach, I think.” Virgil looked back at Roman, who was staring at the ceiling. “Yeah, he’s breathing. He - what do I do?!... Okay, okay…” Virgil crawled back to Roman, keeping the phone in one hand, and placed his free hand on the wound. “Yeah, yeah I’m ap-applying pressure. What now?... I can’t just do nothing! No, d-don’t go, please. Just -” Virgil looked at Roman. “Stay. Please stay,” he said. “I can’t do this alone.”

“Okay,” said the dispatcher on the phone. “I’ll stay with you until the paramedics arrive. Just don’t forget to breathe, okay?”

“Oh- okay,” Virgil whispered.

In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight.

The paramedics arrived quickly. Or slowly, Virgil couldn’t tell. One shoved Virgil off Roman and he fell back, watching as they assessed him. Another one came in with a gurney, and soon Roman was loaded up onto it.

A third had crouched himself in front of Virgil, speaking, saying something that Virgil assumed to be important. He couldn’t answer though. He couldn’t even hear him. All Virgil could do was watch, in silence, ears still ringing.

Roman’s hand was limp. Blood dripped from his fingers, onto the gurney. His eyes were still staring straight up at the ceiling. Virgil’s hands were warm.

“... shot?!”

Sound rushed back in, and Virgil’s eyes flicked back to the paramedic in front of him. “What?” Virgil whispered.

“How did your friend get shot?!” he asked again.

Virgil looked at the floor. “He… he - I walked in the room to check on him and he had a - gun, in his hand and I - we fought, over it, and something must have - the gun must’ve gone off and sh-shot him.”

“Alright. You have some burns on your hands, so I’m going to cover them with a sheet, okay? And then you’re coming with us.”

“In the ambulance?” Virgil asked. The paramedic wrapped his hand in gauze. 

“Yeah. Come on.” The paramedic took him outside and into an ambulance waiting by the driveway.

“Wh-where’s Roman?”

“Separate ambulance, they had to leave right away. We’re going to the same hospital though, so you’ll see him soon.”

“Okay.”

The E.R. wasn’t very busy - in fact, it only had three other people in there, none of which were Roman. Virgil was sat at an empty bed and admitted and there was a doctor looking at his hands. She told him that his hands weren’t too bad, and replaced the bandages.

“Have you seen a man come in here? He was shot. He’s my fr-friend.”

The doctor looked at him. “Yeah, he came in just a few minutes before you. They rushed him into surgery.”

“Could you tell me how he is? Please?”

The doctor hesitated. “I’ll see what I can do.” The doctor looked behind her. “Um, just so you know, every time that someone comes in with a gunshot wound we have to call the police, so they’re - they’re here to talk to you.”

From behind her emerged two police officers, pale and frowning and Virgil felt his muscles tense. “A- oh.”

“Are you ready to talk to them?”

Virgil looked at her. She had pretty brown eyes. “No.”

“Then I’ll tell them to wait.”

The doctor went over to the officers, said something, and they nodded and took a few steps back. One kept his eyes pinned on Virgil. They were cold.

An indeterminate amount of time passed that Virgil spent staring at his hands. He flexed them, pain setting in. How had he not noticed they had been hurting?

Too soon the doctor came back, resignation set in her crow’s feet. “I’m sorry, but the police need to speak to you now.”

Virgil nodded. He didn’t look up when he heard the officers approach. They said their names, asked asinine questions. Virgil spoke in short, clipped sentences and waited until they were finally gone.

He wished Patton were here.

Virgil’s eyes widened. 

“Patton.”

“P-p-please, c-can I - can I - can I use your phone?”

How the hell did people talk to other people regularly, and not in a situation that involved their best friend shooting themsel -

The woman at the reception desk nodded. “Sure.”

Virgil nodded his thanks and grabbed the landline as quickly as possible, ignoring the shaking and pain of his hand.

What was Patton’s number? Virgil couldn’t remember. Did it start with 7 or 6? Logan would know. Logan knew everything. Logan had drilled everyone’s number into his head and then had gone around for weeks insisting that they all knew the home phone number, going so far as to shout it out at random throughout the day and once, memorably, at 2:34 AM. Virgil could rattle it off right now - 865-45 -

“I’m an idiot.” Virgil hissed and typed the home phone number into the phone.

It rang once, twice, three times, more and more. And then -

“You have reached the residence of Logan, Patton, Roman, and Virgil. Please leave a voicemail at the tone,” Logan’s cool voice sounded. 

Virgil cursed. “Listen, Logan, Patton, I’m at St. Basil’s Hospital with Roman. You need to come quick, please, I - they haven’t told me anything about how he’s doing.”

Virgil hung up the phone and put his face in his hands and immediately removed them, hissing with pain. Why did he forget his phone?

What was the number of the bar? Remy’s bar? If he could contact him, maybe he could manage to get ahold of Patton or Logan. 

“Are you done, hun?”

Virgil looked up, eyes wide and mouth open. “Uh, y-yeah,” he stuttered out, lying.

The nurse raised an eyebrow. “Forgot the number?”

He nodded.

“Tell me and I’ll see if I can help.”

“Well, it’s - it’s Remy’s bar, on Third Street? Sleepless?”

“Oh, that place! I go there all the time. And thankfully for you, I was born pre-1990, so I actually remember phone numbers.” The nurse smiled at him and dialed the number, then held the phone out to him. “Here you are, hun!”

“Thanks.” Virgil took the phone with one hand, smiling waveringly. She nodded and left.

“Sleepless Bar on Third Street, how can I help you?”

“Hi, is - is Logan Cohen there? Or Patton Foster? Or Remy?”

“Uh yeah, let me get him -” There was the sound of muffled yelling, and then Remy’s pitchy voice came through.

“This is Remy babe, how can I help?”

“Look, it’s Virgil -”

“Oh, you. What do you want?”

Virgil sighed. Remy and Virgil shared a unique banter of mutual dislike that, at its core, masked solidarity in caring about Patton, Logan, and Roman. They never agreed on anything except that those three were some of the most amazing people they’ve ever met - which was why Virgil felt not annoyance or irritation at Remy’s voice (for once) but rather relief.

“Remy, it’s Roman.”

Remy went quiet, somehow understanding the urgency of the situation. “What about him?”

“I just - I need Logan and Patton now.”

“They left.”

Fuck. “Can you give me their phone numbers?”

Remy, for once in his forsaken life, didn’t lounge about or dawdle. Instead he pulled out his phone and recited first Logan’s, and then Patton’s, number. 

“Will you tell me what’s happened to Roman now?”

Virgil gulped, staring at the paper he had written the numbers on. “He - “ Virgil hesitated. “He got - “

“Spit it out, Virgil!”

Saying it made it real.

Virgil exhaled sharply, breaths coming in gasps. “He- he -”

“What did he do?”

“He shot himself!”

Silence.

Virgil hung up.

“Virgil? Why are you calling from the hospital? Is everything alright?”

“Logan you need to come to the emergency room, like, right now.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Please. Just hurry.”

“... Alright. I’ll collect Patton. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Thank you.”

Virgil was sitting on one of those cold hard chairs in the E.R’s waiting room when Logan and Patton came in, Logan’s ponytail in slight disarray. Patton spotted him and tugged Logan over to him, taking a seat on either side of Virgil.

“What happened kiddo?” Patton asked. He smelled like a whole bar.

Virgil shook his head, head between his knees. He had placed his hands on his parietal, shielding himself as if from a bomb blast or, in this case, the sterile surroundings. 

Patton gasped. “Your hands, Virgil… what happened? Did you get hurt? Where’s Roman?”

Virgil inhaled sharply. The adrenaline had worn off, being replaced with mind-numbing fear.

Logan pried one hand from Virgil’s head and rotated it in his hands, examining it. “Did you burn yourself?”

A small choking noise.

Logan let go of his hand. “Virgil, I understand that you are feeling afraid right now, and I sympathize with you. But it is imperative that you tell Patton and I what happened.”

Logan’s words circulated in Virgil’s ear. Slowly, he nodded. Without changing his position, Virgil spoke in a low, rough voice. “Roman tried to kill himself.”

“I’m sorry Virgil, what was that?” Logan asked.

Virgil lifted up his head and looked Logan dead in his eyes. Then, with slow, precise deliberation, “Roman tried to kill himself.”

Logan came back again, head hung low and light glinting off his glasses. “No update on the surgery,” he told them, and then took his seat next to Patton.

“It’s only been fifteen minutes, Lo,” Patton said.

“Since we’ve been here. Who knows how long it’s been since Roman went into surgery.”

“They’ll tell us when they have something.”

Logan clenched his fists on top of his knees and glared at the ground. Patton looked from him to Virgil, who was still hunched in a sort of fetal position, hands covering his ears. “I know!” he said, raising one finger. “We should go to the cafeteria and get something to eat while we wait for news.”

Virgil shook his head.

“You go. I’ll stay here and wait,” Logan said.

Patton frowned, looked between Logan and Virgil, and then shook his head. He stood up and grabbed them both by the shirt sleeves. “Let’s go to the cafeteria,” he said, and it wasn’t a suggestion.

“Why don’t you get us a table Virge?” Patton asked, patting him on the shoulder. Virgil nodded and grabbed a seat in the corner. When Patton and Logan returned, they carried several sandwiches, two salads, and far too many desserts to be healthy.

Patton gave them all forks and spoons and immediately started in on a ham sandwich. “Don’t worry, we got kosher stuff too!”

Virgil nodded and sucked on a juice pack. Logan didn’t eat anything. Patton talked about something aimless the entire time, going through four sandwiches and a salad before eating two slices of cake. He must be a stress eater.

“Are we done here, Patton?” Logan asked. “We should get back to the waiting room.”

“You haven’t eaten anything Logan. Have a sandwich.”

Logan stood. “I’m good. I’m going back to the waiting room.”

“Are you -” Logan walked away, running his hands through his hair.

Patton closed his mouth and stared at the table, hands resting on the wood. Virgil watched him, then hesitantly reached for a brownie and munched on it. Patton looked up at him, smiled. “Thanks, Virge.” 

Logan was leaning against a wall near the exit when they came back, staring at the tiles. Patton and Virgil sat in front of him.

“Did we miss any -”

“No.” Logan’s arms were crossed.

“Oh.”

And the three of them waited again, caught in the liminal space of the waiting room.

“For Prince Ramirez?”

There was a doctor, dressed in scrubs, standing at the opening to the waiting room. She had a nondescript face and stature. There was nothing remarkable about this person.

Logan pushed himself off the wall, crossing the room in long, brisk steps. “Yes?”

Patton and Virgil came to stand behind him. The surgeon took a breath. “The bullet was shot at such an angle that it perforated the diaphragm, the left lung, and the heart. The doctors are still in surgery, but it might be time to prepare yourself for the worst.”

Patton put his hand over his mouth and let out a choked sound. Virgil could only stare, past the doctor, past the walls. His mind slowed until he felt each beat of his heart shudder through his entire body. 

_**Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom.** _

“Thank you, doctor,” Logan said. 

The doctor nodded and walked away, leaving the three of them to stand by the entrance.

Without a word, Logan turned and walked out the exit.

“L-Logan?” Patton asked, walking after him. Virgil followed, the doors closing shut behind him automatically.

Logan was hunched over in the cold still night, outlined against the concrete walls of the hospital and indigo sky. One hand was braced against the wall as he leaned over the plants, retching.

“Logan?” Patton asked again, his scuffled footsteps echoing in the quiet.

Logan didn’t respond, just continued to vomit. As they approached, they saw his shoulders quiver.

Patton reached out, gently rested a hand between his shoulder blades, but Logan flitted away as though he was a cornered wounded animal. “I’m fine,” he rasped, voice thick with acid.

“Logan, tell us what’s wrong. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, go back inside.”

Patton took a deep breath, put his foot down as if he were rooting himself. “How are you feeling Logan?”

“Patton I said I’m fine.”

“You’re clearly not, Logan, so if you could just please tell me -”

“I’M FINE PATTON, JUST PLEASE GO BACK INSIDE!”

“NO!”

Patton’s voice rang in the emptiness, startling the two men with him. Both of his hands were clenched into fists at his side as he stared at the back of Logan’s head, mouth tight.

“Stop lying, Logan! Just tell us what you’re feeling, for once! You always act like you’re above everyone else, like you don’t have emotions, but I know it’s not true! You’re human Logan! And right now Roman is somewhere inside this hospital and he could be dying and you haven’t said a word about it! So please, for my sake, just TELL ME HOW YOU’RE FEELING!”

There was a pause from Logan as he tipped into the wall, thinking. Slowly, he pushed himself upright and independent of the wall. Virgil’s eyes widened as he watched Logan turn, his feet dragging on the cement. His eyes were fully open behind his glasses, the light from the E.R catching on them.

“I… am _feeling,_ ” he began, haltingly. “... responsible, for Roman’s trying to k-kill himself.”

“What?”

“The last thing I said to Roman was that I don’t engage in tantrum throwers. I- I insulted him, and now he might be dying and I - and I - it’s all my fault.” Logan covered his mouth with his hand and fell to his knees, his breath coming out in jabs. “I thought that something was wrong with him, something seemed off, but I - I didn’t do anything about it. I didn’t listen to my _feelings_ and now, and now he’s in a hospital and - and it’s all my fault!” Logan sobbed. “I can’t - he can’t die, he can’t die, pl-please!”

Patton sat next to him, gathering Logan up in his arms and hugging him to his chest. “I-It’s not your fault Logan, it’s not our fault, we - we couldn’t have known -”

“No! There were signs! Signs of depression and we ignored them! We should have known, we should have known, we should have known,” Logan repeated into Patton’s shoulder, hands clinging to his blue shirt.

Virgil watched, standing above them. He shook his head. “N-no,” he said roughly. “No, it - it’s not our fault. We couldn’t have done anything, it - it’s Roman’s fault. He’s the one who didn’t tell us, who didn’t trust us. Why didn’t he come to us! It’s his own fault! We could have figured it out together, we could have helped him, b-but he didn’t tell us! It wasn’t my fault!”

“This isn’t helping!” Patton screeched. “I don’t want to think it was our fault, or Roman’s, or anybody’s, or maybe all of us did something wrong. But this isn’t helping! Blaming ourselves - or each other - isn’t helping anyone!”

Virgil fought down a scream. “So then what do we do Pat?!” Virgil asked.

Patton paused, looking down. “We wait,” he said. “We wait for Roman to come out of surgery. And we pray.”

Patton returned from the chapel thirty minutes later. Logan and Virgil were sitting together now, holding each other’s hands. 

“No word,” Virgil told him as Patton sat down, dreads falling like a curtain on the sides of his face.

“How long have we been here?”

“Three hours.”

Three more hours past.

At a bit past four in the morning, a doctor came into the E.R’s waiting room.

“Prince Ramirez?” she called out.

Patton stood, followed by Logan and Virgil, and they went to meet him.

“Is he okay? Is he out of surgery?”

The doctor took a brief pause and looked Patton in the eye. “The tear to his diaphragm was fixed, but he had a pneumothorax, meaning one of his lungs collapsed. We were able to repair this as well. Our main concern now is with the damage to his heart. Thankfully, his aorta wasn’t damaged, but the bullet did pass through the left ventricle. If he had gotten here a second later, he would have bled out. The surgeons fixed that as well, but we are still concerned, so we are going to keep him in the hospital for -”

“He’s alive?” Virgil asked, his voice scarcely his own.

The doctor looked at him. “He’s alive.”

They could see him through the doors - he had a single room, the curtain blocking him partially from view. Patton swept it aside and Logan and Virgil ducked under his arm.

Roman wasn’t awake. He was sleeping, looking rather small despite being over six feet. He was hooked up to several machines, his heart monitor beeping regularly. 

Virgil’s eyes stared and he froze as Patton and Logan fanned out on either side of him. Patton let out a gasp and fell into a chair next to Roman. And then, miraculously, Patton started to giggle.

Logan and Virgil shared a look before turning their bewilderment to Patton, who simply waved them off. Virgil cocked a questioning eyebrow.

Between his laughter, Patton managed to string together a sentence. “He’s gonna be here tomorrow.”

Roman didn’t wake up that night, so the three of them were forced to go home. The lights were on when they got there, the house haphazard from the train of paramedics from earlier. It was hard to believe only a couple of hours ago Roman was dying.

They all stood in the living room for a moment, Logan closing and locking the door behind them. 

“Um, where did he…” Patton trailed off, and Virgil knew what he was asking.

Virgil coughed, mouth dry. “He was in his room,” he muttered. Patton nodded, eyes casting around the room without any goal but to not look down the hallway.

“I um… what do we do now?” he asked.

“It would be easiest if we removed the stain out as soon as possible,” Logan began, joining them at their side. He was slouching. “I assume he did… get his fluids on the carpet?”

Virgil nodded.

“I see. I’ll clean it. You two get some sleep.”

“No, we can -”

“Please. Go to bed, Patton. Virgil.”

Patton opened his mouth to argue, but Virgil put his hand on Patton’s shoulder. “Sure,” he said. “Let’s go,” he told Pat.

He got what Logan wanted, even if Logan didn’t. He needed to be alone.

Virgil went to his room, tucked himself in.

He didn’t sleep.

Patton had made breakfast. The smell of waffles, eggs, bacon, and coffee perfumed the house.

“Wow Pat, how long have you been up?” Virgil asked as he poured himself a steaming mug of black coffee.

“Oh, I don’t know. Quick, get it hot!”

Virgil served himself up a plate. “Thanks, Pat. But, uh, why did you make so much bacon? Logan and I don’t eat that.”

“I’m going to give it to Roman today!”

Virgil stabbed at his waffles, the phantom sensation of a gun’s scalding barrel pressing up against his hands. He needed to change his dressings.

“You alright Virge? You’re pretty quiet.”

“I’m fine.”

Patton looked at him for a moment. “You sure kiddo? You know you can talk to me.”

“I’m fine,” Virgil repeated, trying to ignore how much like Roman he sounded. “Where’s Logan anyway? He makes the coffee.”

“I made it this morning. I think he’s sleeping in.”

Virgil stopped attacking his waffles, an image of Logan’s head with a bullet hole filling his mind. “You haven’t seen him this morning?”

“No - what’s wrong Virge?”

But Virgil had shot up from his seat and was racing down the hall, heart beating against his ribs. He slammed open the door to Logan’s room, eyes adjusting to the dark. He skidded over to the bed, the perfectly made, untouched bed, unslept in bed. 

“Logan?” Virgil cried out. “Logan! Where are you!”

He ran from the room, Patton following. “What’s - we can’t find Logan?”

Virgil burst into the bathroom - empty, and then turned - paused, at Roman’s door. His breathing seized. Not again.

Slowly, he pushed the door open with his hand, swinging it open, revealing first Roman’s messy bed, then his flags, the sparseness of his room, and finally, the desk.

And beneath the desk, lying in blood, was Logan, eyes closed.

Virgil couldn’t feel his body, couldn’t feel Patton bang past him, knocking him into the door. “Logan!” Patton said, coming to kneel beside him, shaking his shoulder. “Logan, no, please -”

“Umph,” Logan groaned, eyes opening slowly. He rolled onto his other side. “Tired,” he muttered.

“Logan!” Patton yelled. The man in question flinched and forced himself upright, rubbing his neck.

“What?” he snapped.

“We thought you were dead!”

The color drained from Logan’s face. “Oh.”

“What the hell were you doing?” Virgil asked, presence returning to him.

“I - I was trying to clean these stains off and I must’ve - I must’ve fallen asleep. They are very stubborn.”

“Don’t do that again,” Virgil told him, rubbing at his eyes. 

“Do what?”

“Scare me!”

Logan looked at him, nodded. “Alright Virgil,” he said, voice uncharacteristically gentle. Then, with a sniff, “Is something burning?”

Patton gasped. “My bacon!”

“Visiting hours will begin soon, we need to get going,” Logan said as he washed the dishes.

“Okay! I call dibs on the bathroom then, if that’s alright with you!” Patton said. They nodded.

“Hey L,” Virgil asked as he put the spare waffles into the fridge. “How do you feel about seeing Roman?”

Logan hesitated, then sighed, as if accepting his fate. “I… don’t know. Patton seems to be excited, but I fear I can’t share in that. If anything, I think I am… scared, to see him. Despite what you two said last night, I can’t help but find myself to blame for Roman’s… attempt.”

Virgil watched him. Logan was methodically washing a plate now, eyes trained on the sponge and suds. He should say something. He should do something. After everything that happened, he had to do something.

“Okay, the bathroom’s free!” Patton said, walking into the room with a smile.

“My turn.” Virgil turned away and went down the hallway into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He hunched over the desk, turned on the sink, and splashed water into his face, soaking his bandages. His hands shook as he gripped the basin.

Just five minutes. Five minutes.

“He’s been in there for ten minutes. Perhaps he is having digestive issues.” Logan looked up from his watch. Patton was frowning from where he sat on the couch.

“I’m going to go check on him.”

“Are you sure that’s -”

“Yeah.” Patton got up and went down the hallway, knocking on the bathroom’s door. “You alright Virge?”

It took a moment for Patton to get a response. “Fine Pat.”

“Can I come in?”

“I’m fine!”

“Please?” Patton asked quietly.

There was a pause, and then the door unlocked. Patton went through and enclosed himself in the room, taking in the sight before him. Virgil was beside the sink, one hand on his face, the other on the porcelain. He was paler than usual.

“What’s wrong Virgil?” Patton asked.

Virgil shook his head, not making eye contact.

“Don’t lie to me please.”

And when Patton said things like that, softly and without demand, Virgil could never deny him. “I don’t want to see Roman today.”

He felt Patton lean back at that. “What? Why?”

“I just - I can’t do it. I can’t see him.”

“... I think I hate him, Patton.”

There was a small sound as Patton sat on the toilet next to him, resting one hand on Virgil’s forearm. “No, you don’t, kiddo.”

Virgil took his arm away from him. “No offense, Pat, but there’s no way you could possibly know how I feel. You weren’t there when he fucking shot himself.”

“No, I wasn’t, but I know you don’t hate Roman, Virgil. You’re hurt and angry and scared, and it’s easier to hate Roman than to love him.”

Virgil scoffed. Patton continued.

“He tried to kill himself. But, when someone kills themselves, they kill a part of everyone who loves them too. In that way, Roman trying to kill himself was also him killing you.”

“I can’t imagine how it must have felt like to be there when he shot himself. I don’t even want to think about it. But this hatred towards Roman that you’re feeling is just to mask how much it hurts. I think seeing him, alive and okay, would help. And I know Roman would want you to visit him.”

Virgil’s heart seized at the thought of Roman in the hospital, small and mortal. “I - I can’t, Patton. I just - I can still see - I can still feel -” His hands burned.

“Okay, okay, okay Virgil. You don’t have to go, it’s alright. Let’s - let’s change your bandages, okay?”

Virgil nodded, giving Patton his hands. With slow, deliberate gentleness, Patton unwrapped his hands, rubbing his thumb against his wrist. Virgil watched the discarded wrappings fall into the trash as Patton got out a new pack and rewrapped them, humming softly under his breath. 

“I’m wishing  
For the one I love  
To find me  
Today.”

Logan and Patton had been at the hospital for a couple hours when Virgil finally left the sanctity of his room. He had tried, and failed, to take a nap. All he had managed to do was tangle his bedsheets and scroll mindlessly on his phone. But it was something, at least, to distract from the magnetism of the room next door.

The room in question, of course, was Roman’s.

Now Virgil stood in front of it, hands clenched as tightly as he could without hurting them. There was something that could have been hatred thrumming through his veins, except for Patton’s all too insightful words ringing in his brain.

As usual, Patton was right. It was easier to hate Roman than to admit that he loved him.

“AH!” Virgil screamed, punching the door so it flung open against the wall with a bang. “Shit,” he hissed, cradling his reddening knuckles.

He looked up from his hand, looking at the doorway in front of him, looming temptingly. He could hear it in his ears.

_**Bang.**_

Virgil shook his head. It was just a room.

Why did he want to go in?

Morbid fascination, Virgil guessed. The room of his best friend’s attempted suicide.  
Just thinking that made him nauseous.

Virgil put a hand on the doorway, leaning against it. He could see the blood. Virgil closed his eyes, and all he saw was Roman’s eyes.

Through the diaphragm, into the left lung and heart. His eyes. He had grabbed Virgil’s hand - the blood seeped through his shirt. His fear. The erratic rise and fall of his chest. He shot himself, he shot himself, Roman shot himself, he shot himself he shot himself he shot himself -

Virgil collapsed to the ground, falling against the doorway, and cried into his hands.

There was a piece of paper on the floor.

Virgil’s tears had subsided for the moment, leaving him only with a deep, abiding need to see Roman, to feel his heartbeat, to see his eyes open, to hold his hand. He would have left for the hospital too, if not for the fact that there was a crumpled piece of paper on the floor, just slightly blood-stained.

Virgil stood up, crossed the short distance from the doorway to the paper, and picked it up. He began to read it and -

Oh. 

It was Roman’s suicide note.

Logan and Patton arrived late at night to find Virgil lying still on the couch, staring blankly at the ceiling. The two frowned at each other.

“Virgil? What’s up?”

“How’s Roman?” is all Virgil said.

“He was sleeping,” Logan said, taking off his shoes and moving Virgil’s legs to the side so he could sit down. “I imagine his body needs a great deal of rest.”

Patton shrugged off his shoes as Virgil put his legs on Logan and made space for Patton by his head, which he took. 

“When is he coming home?” Virgil asked as he put his head in Patton’s lap.

“Not for at least three days, probably more. The doctors are worried about infection and bleeding and stuff.” Patton ran his hands through Virgil’s hair. “What did you get up to while we’re gone?” he asked.

Virgil shifted, then pointed at the table, where a single piece of slightly bloodied paper lay.

“What is it?” Logan asked, picking it up.

“His suicide note.”

Logan let the paper flutter into his lap. “His what?” he asked.

“His suicide note,” Virgil repeated. “I - he wrote it to us.”

Logan turned an odd shade of green and moved the paper onto Patton’s lap, turning his face away from them. With one hand he took off his glasses.

There was a small sound of crumpling paper as Patton picked it up, eyes scanning each line. Logan sat up, walking into the kitchen and starting a pot of coffee.

“What are you doing L?” Virgil asked. “It’s almost 9:00.”

“Making coffee.”

“Yeah, but it’s 9 PM. What about the sleep schedules you go on about?”

Logan paused, his grip tightening on the coffee pot. “Ah, yes. I forgot.” And he paused in his machinations.

Virgil watched Logan intensely. He knew this man well enough to know that he was inches from falling apart. He watched as Logan’s fingers flexed, and then his head turned, turned towards a drawer and he opened it, pulling out an Exacto knife. 

Virgil sat up, swinging his legs wildly as he followed Logan down the hall. “Woah woah woah, wait, L, let’s - what are you doing? - let’s just think this through, don’t be rash, right? We can just go back and talk with Patton, he’ll know what to do - or talk about how you’re feeling - why are we going in Roman’s room?”

Logan sat down over the bloodstain, looking at it, and then, without a moment's hesitation, swung his arm up, and brought the knife down into the carpet.

Virgil stopped. “What are you doing?” 

“I am getting rid of this blood,” Logan grunted, dragging the knife in a jagged line. “I am -” a grunt, “- venting my emotions in a healthy manner instead of - bottling it up and leaving it to metaphorically fester inside me.”

Virgil sat down next to him. “Oh.”

Logan proffered him the knife. “Want a turn?”

Virgil looked at it before taking it in his hands. “Yeah.” And then he continued Logan’s shaking cut.

Patton came in about five minutes later, eyes red and hand still holding the paper. “So you’re all having a party in here without me?” he joked weakly.

Logan was starting a new cut on the carpet. “This is clearly not a party, Patton, this is simply Virgil and I partaking in an emotional outlet that also takes care of one of our more important tasks.”

“It was a joke, Logan.”

Logan paused, giving Virgil the opportunity to take the knife. “Oh. Well in that case, yes.”

Patton sat down. “A healthy emotional outlet, huh? Mind if I give it a go?”

Virgil paused in his cutting to look up at Patton, who had let the paper fall to the ground beside him. “Sure,” he said as he gave Patton the knife.

“Thanks.” Patton smiled, and then stabbed the carpet repeatedly, scoring the wood underneath.

Virgil leaned back from the violent display. “You’re - you’re supposed to cut it Pat, not stab it.”

“This is my emotional outlet, Virgil,” Patton whispered as he continued to thrust the knife into the flooring. “I just read my best friend’s suicide note after watching him sleep in the hospital all day, and I can’t do anything to help him. I can’t fix his wound, I can’t take away his problems, I can’t even take him home! All I can do is wait for him to heal up, and stab this piece of fucking carpet.” He stabbed the carpet again.

Virgil and Logan looked at each other, mouths hanging open as their eyes flicked to Patton, trying to come up with a response.

Patton paused, panting. “Okay, who’s turn is it now?”

Logan closed his mouth. “That would be mine.”

The three of them spent the night cutting and stabbing the bloodstain, eventually extracting it from the rest of the floor. Patton had the honor of throwing it in the trash can while Virgil flipped it off. It was the simple joys that mattered the most, it turned out.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” Patton told them. He was staring at the trashcan.

“We’ll stay with you.” Virgil didn’t need to ask Logan to know he agreed.

“Roman has the largest bed. Let’s go.”

And so, the three roommates shuffled off to Roman’s room once again.

Virgil woke with Patton’s arm draped around him and an empty spot on his other side. Slowly, he inched his way out from under Patton until he was at the edge of the bed. Virgil looked around the room.

Sitting by the desk was Logan, hair ruffled from sleep. He was resting his chin on his hands as he looked at a piece of paper laid out in front of him, contemplating it. 

As Virgil approached, he realized what it was.

“It’s sad,” Virgil said as he sat on the desk.

“Well I presume so. It is a suicide note.”

“Are you afraid to read it?”

Silence.

“That’s a yes.” Virgil sighed. “You need - no, scratch that. We all need to get better at talking about our feelings. I mean, last night Patton was murdering the carpet because he was so angry. I couldn’t even go visit Roman in the hospital and you had a fucking meltdown and Roman - Roman fucking - Roman tried to kill himself. I mean, if that doesn’t scream emotionally repressed I don’t know what does.” He laughed without any humor. “We need therapy, Logan. We really, really do. Because,” Virgil hesitated. He took a deep breath. “Because the truth is, I don’t think I’d be able to go on without you guys. I - when Roman shot himself, my entire world turned upside down. And now that I know that he’s okay - physically, that is - it’s still not entirely right side up. I - it shouldn’t be so hard to say ‘I love you.’”

“No, no it shouldn’t,” Logan whispered.

“Do you think, if we told Roman that before we left, he wouldn’t have tried to kill himself?”

Logan was quiet again. Virgil sighed, bit his lip, and then, hesitantly, like Patton had done for him so many times before, put his hand on Logan’s shoulder.

“You should read his note,” Virgil told him, before swinging off the desk and leaving the room.

_Dear Patton, Virgil, and Logan,  
I don’t know why I’m addressing this to you, considering you will never read this. This in an exercise, one Patton would approve of, I believe. I have thought that since I can’t seem to shake these stupid, useless feelings inside of me, maybe writing them down would help. So I’ll pretend that I can talk to you.  
I feel as if there is a monster in my chest, and it is besting me in every battle I fight. It’s killing me. I don’t know when the last time was that I had actually had a good night’s sleep. You never seem to notice. It makes me wonder if I have already died. The thought of death occupies much of my time. Wherever I turn in this maze, it always greets me. Perhaps that is the answer.  
No matter what I do, I’m never good enough for any of you. I try so hard, and yet my efforts are fruitless. Nothing I do is any match for your standards or scrutiny. You throw away every piece of me that I give you, why don’t you throw away me too?! I think I’m losing my mind. I can’t stop crying, I’m crying as I write this and it is smearing the page.  
You must think I’m a coward, that I am weak for feeling like this. For thinking like this. But I have never been happy with myself, and I don’t need any of you to feel bad for me! I can see the pity in your eyes when you look at me. You jab and laugh at me, you try to tell me how to do my job and all I get is obscenely angry at how unappreciated I am - so why do you try to help? Just let me go! Let me be by myself. I’m tired of living, of crying all the time.  
I am drawn to death. What is it like is something I ask myself. I know that must sound crazy to you, but I’m depressed as fuck, I’m stressed as fuck, and I don’t think Prozac or nothing can help me with this. I wish you loved me.  
In all this I ask to see G-d, but He isn’t there. I don’t know if I believe in Him anymore - Is that the problem? But one day I’m gonna see if He is real. My hands are itching for my gun and I’ve been fighting the feeling but I don’t know how much longer I can hold it off. If G-d is real, is He going to send me to hell?  
I don’t want to die like this. I never imagined my life going like this. I pretend to have the life I want, like I am happy. I return all of your smiles but I don’t mean it. And I haven’t in too long a time.  
Maybe if I just chilled out I would be okay, but I don’t know how and I don’t even care anymore. Would you be calm if I wasn’t here anymore? Or would you be lost without me, because honestly, I think the world is better off without me. I’m losing track of my mind, I’m thinking too many thoughts to make sense of any of it. Is this the end? It feels like the end.  
I’ve been listening to Robin Williams lately, and I’ve been thinking about going out like him. Is that crazy? But maybe I’m not the Ordinary People of John Legend. I’ve been thinking it over, and it seems that there is no way out of this pain that I’m causing. I love you all, but I’ve been suicidal for years now. Shit.  
You’d all tell me to take it one day at a time but look at me! I can’t even make it through today without completely losing it! The pen’s running out of ink, so I have to wrap this shit up. I guess, look, just know it’s a new day, but if you’re reading this then it’s probably too late!_

Virgil was sipping the coffee Logan had made last night when the aforementioned man came into the room, clutching the suicide note in an iron grip. “I don’t - I don’t - I don’t understand,” Logan hissed, eyes watering.

Virgil’s brow furrowed as Logan continued. “How does he - why does he think like this? What have I done to make him think like this? Why didn’t I notice? Why didn’t I notice?”

Virgil just stared. “I don’t know. I don’t know why we didn’t see it.”

“I don’t understand, Virgil,” Logan pleaded. “I don’t understand.” 

Virgil put down his coffee, taking the letter from Logan as softly as possible. His eyes traced the familiar wording, heart shuddering in his chest. “I don’t either.” And then Logan was crying and Virgil moved instinctively to hug him, the letter still in his grasp. He buried his face in Logan’s shoulder.

“Why are we having a hugfest in the kitchen?” came a sleepy drawl.

“Just get in here Patton.”

“Are you sure you want to go today Virge?”

Virgil double-knotted his shoes. “Yeah.” He needed to see him. He needed him.

“I’m driving,” Logan told them. That was good. Virgil hated driving.

St. Basil’s Hospital wasn’t nearly as looming in the morning, Virgil thought as he flexed his bandaged hands. It’s interesting how some sunshine made things better.

They went through the main entrance of the hospital this time, which, in contradiction to the concrete ER, was tall, filled with floor-to-ceiling windows, and increasingly labyrinthine. Despite this, Logan didn’t even ask for directions, leading Virgil to conclude that he had memorized the way to Roman’s room when he first came. In Virgil’s opinion it was an amazing feat, because as they weaved their way through identical white halls he began to realize that he would not be able to find his way out on his own, despite the signs hanging from the ceiling.

It also turned out that hospital hallways, like waiting rooms, are liminal spaces. Time seemed to expand and constrict in the space, and all too soon and yet far longer than it should have been they were stopped outside a small room, a curtain pulled around the bed inside. 

Without hesitation, Patton entered, as Logan and Virgil wavered at the door, his heart seizing behind his ribcage. Virgil pulled his hoodie tighter as Patton peeked behind the curtain and then turned back to them. “He’s sleeping.”

Logan sighed as if relieved, and then entered the room, holding the curtain open for Virgil to follow. “Coming?” he asked him.

Virgil’s heart swelled then and he nodded, ducking under Logan’s arm and into Roman’s room.

Roman was small. Now that Virgil was taking the time to look at him, and not back in their house where changes are gradual, or in the heat of the moment on the floor as they fight over a gun, Virgil could see just how small Roman had become.

The hospital gown emphasized his skinny chest, the loss of muscular attachments. His arms, once toned and defined, seemed withered. Even his face did not escape emaciation. Roman’s cheekbones, always sharp, now were emphasized by hollowed cheeks and dark circles under his eyes. Even his hair, typically defined and bouncy, lay flat and heavy on his head. The sight of him, alive but hurting, made something in Virgil soar and break all at once.

He moved slowly, as if in water, and came to crouch beside Roman’s bedside. He could have been in one of those fairytales he loved so much, cursed to be in a dead sleep forever, if not for the regular beating of the heart monitor and the short but steady rise and fall of his chest.

Virgil gently took Roman’s hand, bandages scraping against soft skin. He smiled. “Hey,” he whispered.

Roman’s heart monitor started going faster.

“Oh my g-d what did I do?” Virgil pulls his hand back, looking between Logan and Patton, who were both equally confused.

“I - I don’t think you did anything? Maybe he’s having a bad dream,” Patton proposed, leaning over Roman from the other side.

“Yes, that could be it…” Logan considered, eyes narrowed as he examined Roman’s face. “Or… he’s actually awake and is only pretending to be asleep.”

“Why do you say that?” Patton asked as Virgil leaned closer, inspecting Roman’s face as well.

“I doubt anyone pinches their eyes that much in their sleep, no matter the dream.”

And now that Logan had pointed it out, Virgil could see how scrunched up Roman’s eyes were, how tense his mouth was, as if restraining itself from reacting. 

Virgil’s brows shadowed his eyes. “Really, Roman?” he growled.

Roman flinched at that, which they took as a sign that Logan was right.

Hesitantly, one eye cracked open, peering around the room before settling on Virgil, who was closest to Roman’s face. “Heeeeey, Virge,” Roman tried. “Come here often?”

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME ROMAN?” Virgil exploded, rearing up from his hunched position until he stood to his full 6’3” glory. “YOU HAVE THE FUCKING NERVE TO AVOID US DURING VISITING HOURS? WHAT THE FUCK?”

“Virgie, just want to remind you,” Patton said as he walked around the bed to grab Virgil’s arms consolingly. “That we’re in the cardiology ward of the hospital, so maybe yelling at the top of our lungs isn’t the brightest idea.”

Virgil clenched his teeth, eyes still locked on Roman’s sheepish expression. He buried his face in his hands.

“Okay, so I know that pretending to be asleep isn’t the healthiest way to handle my problems, and I’m sorry, but I really didn’t know what to say to you so I just thought I could ‘sleep it off’ until this whole ordeal was over and everything went back to normal, you know?”

Virgil let out a muted scream of frustration.

Logan’s voice sounded as if he had been knocked unbalance. “I think what Virgil is trying to communicate is that things are not going to go back to the way they were before, Roman… and, frankly, I believe I speak for all of us when I say that I don’t want things to be as they were.”

Virgil peered through his fingers, watching as Logan’s eyes looked at the floor, intermittently looking to Roman, who was staring at his hands. 

“He does, kiddo,” Patton said from beside Virgil. “Beforehand, you were hurting, and we didn’t know it. Without meaning to, we… we added to your pain. We don’t ever want to hurt you, Roman. We love you. We don’t ever want you to be in pain again.”

Roman’s cheeks reddened as he scoffed lightheartedly. “I wasn’t in that much pain -”

Virgil cut him off. “We read your letter, Roman.”

Roman turned away. “Oh.”

“Just, stop lying, please. We want to help you, we want to be with you Roman, but we can’t if you don’t let us. Please, Roman. Let us in.”

“We… we love you, Roman,” Logan whispered.

Roman turned to look at Logan, then Patton, then Virgil, with a wobbling lip, before, finally, the dam broke, and tears came pouring down his face. Without thought the rest of them surged forward, wrapping their arms around him. Patton rested lightly on Roman’s chest as Logan and Virgil took either side, Logan murmuring something soft and desperate into Roman’s ear. There was some blubbering coming from Roman, some half-worded apologies that they assured weren’t needed. Eventually, the flow of words subsided, leaving space for just a few hiccups and the sound of deep breaths.

Virgil had buried his face in Roman’s shoulder, one hand knotted in Roman’s hair. He inhaled deeply, memorizing everything about him, from the smoothness of his skin to his heartbeat. Patton, as usual, was right. If Roman had died, a part of Virgil would have too.

Absently, Virgil’s free hand wandered to Roman’s, threading his fingers through once more. He found that he couldn’t - and with relief, that he didn’t have to - let go.

**Author's Note:**

> And this is the happy ending, meaning I've wrung every last drop of inspiration from this song! I hope you enjoyed ^^ and please, advice and constructive criticism is welcome  
> my tumblr is @comesmarchinghome if you want it :)


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